


Love Is: ...

by tatarrific



Category: South of Nowhere
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2500874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatarrific/pseuds/tatarrific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer's tween "budding lesbian" crisis.  Set about a month after the season finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is: ...

FIC: Love Is: ... [South of Nowhere] (Spencer/Ashley)  
Title: Love Is: ...  
Author: sugarmomma  
Source: South of Nowhere Rating: Teen (some (very mild) sexuality)  
Disclaimer: South of Nowhere, its characters, etc. do not belong to me.  
Summary: Spencer's tween "budding lesbian" crisis.  Set about a month after the season finale.

  
  
 ****  
Love Is: ...

 

She is wearing my T shirt – the plain pale purple one that she said screams “I'm sweet and innocent” but, as I watch her weave her way through the tables on her way to the bar, there is nothing innocent about the way the supple cotton conforms to her body, following each dip and curve of her torso. Her hair is still wet from the shower and loose about her shoulders, and where it spills across her back it turns the cotton a wet, deeper shade of purple.

She is beautiful – she is stunning – and she is mine.

I look around, suddenly uncomfortable, suddenly exposed by this uncommon rush of possessiveness, of pride, but no one seems to be paying attention to me. Gray's is nearly empty on this Tuesday night, late afternoon, really – it is just past seven o'clock – and I look up to see her standing by the bar now, leaning forward on her elbows, smiling. A quick, surreptitious glance around me, and then I indulge in observing her. She is at ease here, more so than anywhere else outside her bedroom, I think, and even in plain jeans and a washed-out T shirt, face free of make-up, she is easily the prettiest girl in the club.

I slide a bit deeper in my chair and twirl my cellphone on the smooth surface of the table. I still feel as though I have to steal glances at her, observe her in increments doled out by hidden looks from across the room, even after nearly a month of dating her. I don't have her boldness, the Ashley Bravado, that direct way she can just look at you – look straight at you – and let her eyes communicate it all. Even now, even when it's just the two of us in the quiet of her room, if she catches me looking at her, I blush. She smiles at me at times like that – a sly smile, or a teasing one, or an inviting one, depending on the occasion – and tries to engage my gaze again. And I, I just blush harder.

“After all, still a Brady, Spence”, I imagine her saying, but of course she doesn't, it's all in my head. But there it is, after all, that feeling of being out of my depth when I'm around her, of being nothing more than an Ohio bumpkin. A plain small-town goose who can't even look at her girlfriend – that word still teases my lips into a smile every time I think it, my _girlfriend_ – without falling into a nervous fit of giggles or a blushing silence.

She is talking to Cat now, ordering our drinks I imagine, and I can see the bartender throw back her head and laugh at something Ashley said. Ash is shaking her head now and laughing herself, and she has her hands out, palms up, as if to say “Who, me?”, her way of inviting you in on the joke. I love watching her in moments like this, when she is unaware, when she is having fun.

I love watching her.

She lifts her hand now and pulls her hair from her back to fall across her shoulder and leans in to hear something Cat says, her head leaning forward, neck exposed. My thighs clench at the sudden ache between them.

I had found her laying on her stomach on her bed, writing in her journal, neck exposed like that, bottom lip caught between her teeth, unaware that I had returned from the bathroom. I had walked over quietly then, from behind, and laid myself over her, pinned her down with the weight of me. She didn't start, she didn't say a thing, no smart-ass comment about me being on top, she just put the pen down and rested her forehead on her journal, an invitation.

And I took it, laid my lips on that fragrant, soft spot behind her ear, pressed a clumsy kiss there. She sighed. I moved my lips lower then, moved my arms higher until I covered her hands with mine, and kissed her again, tasted the skin of her neck. Her fingers twitched under mine at that, but she didn't move or say anything and I breathed out a shaky sigh and kissed her again. Soft hairs at the base of her neck tickled my nose, the scent of her as familiar and as exhilarating as a sudden summer storm, and I grew ravenous with such speed and force that my mind, the sensible part of me, had no time to react, to pull back.

My knee slid behind hers and pushed out, opening her up to me, pressing her down, and my lips skimmed the column of her neck and latched on, her pulse point thrumming and tripping under my tongue. I bit down. I sucked her in. She bucked. She moaned – a sound so low and so full it exploded in the pit of my stomach like and underwater earthquake and – 

And then I stopped, overwhelmed and scared, on my elbows and knees above her, breathing shallow and erratic. She twitched underneath me, thrummed like a plucked guitar string making no sound, a moment, two, and then relaxed with a strangled laugh. She didn't let me apologize, didn't let me feel like I let her down again, instead she rebounded with a standard “It's okay” Ashley-ism – something about having to feed me because I seemed hungry – and proposed a dinner at Gray's.

If it weren't for the conspicuously long time she took in the shower then, and the hungry look I caught in the mirror of her closet as I changed, I might have even believed it was no big deal.

I have been torturing us both with my skittishness for weeks now. I start the dance, our bodies pressed against each other, and she follows my lead, unfettered, open to wherever I choose to take us, and I trill with excitement, with want, I move us forward, I push in deeper, I draw myself out of the brittle shell of inexperience and fear that I won't be enough, I draw her in and then – inevitably, always, I freeze up, I pull back.

And, inevitably, always, she lets me retreat, patient and understanding. And, inevitably, always, I wish she wouldn't, I wish she would push back, demand, sate our hunger with sure moves, unbending desire. But, she doesn't. She lets me lead – and I have, I do – straight into this purgatory of inflamed flesh and unfulfilled desires.

I know what she is doing, and I appreciate it. She is giving me time, she is letting me set the pace. She is making sure I know what I want.

I want her. I want her so badly my jaw clenches, my teeth ache. And yet, I am uncertain. What she does to me, these reactions, my need, is so foreign to everything I have known and experienced before, so foreign to _me_ that sometimes I feel as though someone else is feeling all these things, someone who is not Spencer Carlin.

Everything I have ever thought I felt, every meager experience I ever had in love and sex, all of it pales away into nothingness under her lips. It is unnerving, petrifying, this utter lack of control I teeter on the edge of whenever she lays next to me, one thigh between mine, fingertips on my stomach, lips in a careless caress across my neck. And I would lie, I would be a horrible liar if I said it is that fear alone that holds me back. Yes, she has been the patient, in control one, she has been holding back in order to let me explore but what... what if, after all of this, I can't, what if I don't make her feel the way she makes me feel, what if I'm not enough? 

I look up. She is still at the bar, two drinks before her, Cat busy with another customer. Ashley is engaged as well, though, and the girl that has her hand on Ashley's forearm is beautiful, the kind of beautiful only money and LA can produce; a waterfall of shiny blond hair, big liquid eyes, and a subtle, teasingly inviting smile on her lips.

Ashley is leaning towards her, listening, and the relaxed, carefree pose of a few moments ago is gone. It is a different kind of stance now, a tautness angling her body, a tension that can either mean a lack of comfort or hint at something inviting and reachable, and I wish her back wasn't turned to me, I wish I could see her face.

There is a casualness to the way the girl interacts with her, her hand off Ashley's forearm now but close enough on the bar that her fingers are still in contact with Ashley's arm, a knowing look on her face, eyebrow teasingly raised, head tilted forward in silent invitation, and suddenly I know that _she,_ all California glitter and grace, has already, at some point, probably repeatedly, given Ashley what I still haven't. What I still can't.

What is she doing? What are they saying, what is being offered and accepted with those knowing smiles? The girl purses her lips and lowers her head, her hair falling in a cinematographically beautiful way to obscure her face, her hand pulling back to curl around her drink. Even in retreat everything she does is stylistically impeccable. Ashley finally steps back, takes the drinks and turns towards me.

Her brows are drawn, whether in puzzlement or regret, and when she finally does look at me I am jarred by the skein of memories that obscures her eyes. Memories that don't involve me. Then she smiles, that wide Ashley smile, but I can't – I look away, shaken by the clangor of insecurities, jealousy prickling my eyelids, shaken to the core.

A glass of Coke slides into my view and she lingers by my side, her fingers sliding across the tabletop, away from the glass she put in front of me, towards the edge of the table, leaving a trail of condensation in their wake, and I fight the urge to reach for them, to stop them, and just when I want to do it, take a hold of her hand, to hold it, make that connection again, she moves away and slides into a chair in front of me. I don't look up. I am afraid of what I might see in her face, of what I might show her in mine.

“Spence.”

I had known, clearly I had known that there would be a moment like this, Ashley's past, many-varied as it was, catching up with us. I have known, I have even dealt with it once before, but that was all before, before I gave in fully to how I felt for her, recklessly falling into this tumult of emotions that no one has ever elicited in me before she. She makes me seize up with her bare hands, seize up because each touch leaves a burning imprint on my skin, causes a short circuit of nerves, of emotions. Do I do the same for her? What if I can't? Will she accept a better offer?

“Spe-”

“Who was that?” I hear the sharpness of jealousy, of insecurities in my voice, and clench my jaw, press my lips together. I still don't look at her – I can't – but I can tell she's hurt by the question, by the tone of it, know it by the way her breathing changes. You must learn to read between the lines with Ashley.

Her voice is light but tight then, words coming out too quickly, the voice she uses when she is being defensive.

“She's someone I knew once.”

There it is, then. I look at her, to see it, to see that which she is not saying, and am stopped by the hurt in her eyes. She is nearly rigid in her chair, her arms crossed tight, and I see her do it, see her close up, turn her eyes impenetrable. Impenetrable to me. I am confused, and I know I should ask her what is wrong, diffuse this, but I can't stop now, I need to know. I need her to tell me all of it, to tell me it meant nothing. “I knew her once” leaves too much to the imagination.

“Did you...?”

She laughs then, and it's harsh and bitter, nearly hostile. “God, Spencer, you want _all_ the details?” I look at her, but she is not looking at me, she is gathering her phone, her purse. “Yes, I fucked her. There, is that what you were going for?” She is standing above me now, she's shaking, and I am to, I must be, this can't be happening. “And don't ask me what her name is because, know what, I don't remember. Just like the slut that I am.”

Oh, no. Oh, Ashley, no. No, no, this is not it, this is not about that at all. Oh, god.

  
But she is gone already, a quick blur, a door slammed open. No.

It replays in front of my eyes, then, all of it – how me pulling back time after time must have looked to her; how I almost flinch at her every touch because it burns, it singes me with desire, but she could have read it as a sign of distaste; my reaction now – the frowns, the jaw-clenching, the terseness – Spencer's disgust with Ashley's whoring past. Not Spencer's insecurity, Spencer's selfish jealousy.

My knees are so weak when I stand up, weak enough I worry they will hold me up. They must. I run out after her, blindly, push open the door, stand blinded by the dying day. 

I look around, I can't see her, the parking lot is nearly empty and – there – her car is still there. I squint, take a step, try to see inside, I stop. The car is empty, no one in the driver's seat. I can feel it clawing up my throat now, the desperation, I look around at the emptiness, the stillness of the lot around me, where- and then it catches my eye, a movement by the tire, at the other side of the car. I walk to the car, around it, slowly, not wanting to startle, and there she is, sitting down on the asphalt, leaning against the front tire, feet tucked in close, hands on knees, head hung low.

How did we get here, to the edge of this hurt, so fast, without thinking? I look at her then, that profile fit for a Roman coin, the glittering eyes. I love her. I have never said the words to her. She loves me, too, undeniably. She doesn't have to say it. She has said it every day for weeks now, without uttering a sound. Every look she gives me, each lingering touch – love. Every kiss we share, every moment we steal for ourselves and guard with caresses, with sighs – love. Words are not necessary when we speak to each other. 

It is so clear, what we feel, what we have with each other, and yet, when we do speak, we speak in riddles, in a made-up language we translate for each other – I brushed her hair one night last week, just to do it, just to feel the curls slide between my fingers, feel the bend of her skull against my palm. I told her I loved to take care of her. That I always would. She held me so hard after that, wordless. But we knew.

Yesterday? Yesterday she baked me brownies. Ashley baked. Brownies. And I smiled, and I laughed, and I kissed her, I let her kiss the taste of brownies off my tongue, and I told her I loved... those brownies. And we knew.

Or, did we? Did we understand, or did we just keep throwing out words like breadcrumbs, creating false trails, were we shaking out meaning-fraught phrases before each other like sheer curtains, hoping to expose and disguise our feelings at the same time? I love her. It is so simple, so strong. I think it shines out of me when the lights are dim, this love. And, yet... I have never told her so.

I step in front of her. She twitches, it is almost imperceptible, and pulls her hands in closer, folds them over her stomach, and I feel it tear at my heart, that vulnerability.

“Ash.”

She glances at me and then focuses her sight low, somewhere past me, mumbles. “Forgot my keys in the club.” Frowns, her jaw twitching, and when she looks at me then, I recognize that look – we are back at the schoolyard, arguing about Josie, pretending we don't care, intending to hurt. “Must be off my game, Spence. I used to have the 'Storm out, and leave 'em' routine down pat before, you know, in my whor-”

I drop to my knees before her, lay my hands on her jeans, feel the bones of her kneecaps shift under my palms, draw in the warmth of her. “I love you, Ashley.” 

Her eyes are wide as she looks at me, and she blinks, shakes her head a little, and I clutch at her knees, force her to hear me. “I love you. And I was jealous back there, afraid you would want her over me, I wasn't upset, not like...,” I shake my head, want her to understand, “Not like that. Not because of that.” 

I see it in her eyes, as always, and she bites her lips as the tears start, and then she is on her knees as well, and in my arms. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” It spills out of her like rain, like pain, and I take it in, I hold her close, I say it back, I finally say it all to her.

My lips are near her ear and I kiss her near her earlobe, feel her shudder against me, breathe in deep, feel her hold me tighter in response, and then I whisper. Even so low, my voice shakes, with need, with remnants of fear, with love. “Ash, I'm ready.”

She pulls back, cheeks anointed by tears, eyes large and red. I smile. I lean in, kiss her. I taste her tears with my tongue. I wash them away. When I pull back and look at her, I am ready to say the words. 

“Ash, I want you.” She is looking into my eyes, searching, questioning. “And I won't stop. I won't stop.”

The smile she gives me is all Ashley then, but a different kind, new – wavery, watery with the edge of tears, and all mine. Mine.

  


She took me to her room, then. And I made love to her. And I didn't stop. I won't stop.

 

The End  



End file.
